“Ah.” Alasdair’s tone was as dry as his wit. “You’ve not forgot Crieff’s distillery.”
Ewan smiled even as he frowned. “Impossible to forget, I’m glad to find. And far superior to yours. But all the arable land is entailed to the estate. He simply can’t sell.” But Ewan put his hand to his head, as if all the thoughts and accusations were making it ache.
Alasdair took a long look at his friend, as if he were weighing his next words very carefully. “As much as it may pain you, Ewan, I think the two things—your attempted murder, and his debts—must be inexorably related. You must consider that Malcolm Cameron had the most to gain from your death—his preservation against insolvency.”
Ewan put his hand down, and sat back, but his face was carefully, almost unnaturally blank. “Why would I not just give it to him? Do I not have the money?”
Alasdair considered this. “Given your generous nature, and the fact that you have done so—paid off his debts—before, I cannot say. But his debts are enormous.”
Ewan still shook his head, like a dog with a bone. “But before I can accuse him of anything beyond imprudence, I have to remember what happened.” He closed his eyes. “But I can’t remember. I’ve tried—”
“Can’t?” Alasdair’s voice was quiet, but as insistent and unbending as steel. “Or won’t? Because it is too horrific to think of such a betrayal?”
Ewan’s head went back as if he had been struck. “He is my cousin. My family.”
“He is,” Alasdair confirmed. “But your cousin is also lying, not for the first time. Think back on your youth, Ewan. We—Archie and I—have often heard you speak of the difficulties and problems you had with your cousin.”
“Did I?” Ewan admitted. “But we were no choirboys, either, we four. And murder is…” He trailed off, unable, or unwilling to complete the thoughts. “Lying is wrong, but it is not murder.”
It was too much for Greer. “So we are to do nothing but wait? Wait until someone else is shot at or turns up dead? Wait until we find Dewar, who—because Cameron just accused him of being the shooter—is likely to be the next one found bleeding to death on the moorside?”
The silence was nearly deafening. No one else moved—Papa stopped with his wine stem half-way to his mouth. No one else spoke—though their eyes shifted from one to the other. All looked at Ewan. Because only he could really answer.
“Aye,” Ewan finally decided. “We wait. And hope that he goes.”
Greer’s disappointment turned the food bitter in her mouth. “And hope you haven’t signed Dewar’s death warrant. Or your own when he’s out of money and comes back to try to murder you again.”
“Greer,” Mama’s caution was cutting. “That is quite enough. Listen to yourself.”
“I have.” Greer refused to apologize—she was done with polite caution. “I wish someone else would. What do you think would have happened to me, if I had succumbed to his flattery and blandishments, and married him? Once he had hold of Dalshee’s monies? Do you think we would have scrubbed along in perfect harmony? Or do you think I would have ended up dead in a glen, or on Glas Maol, from an errant poacher’s shot?”
“We do have one thing in our favor,” Quince asserted into the tense quiet. “We have the consolation of knowing he’s really not very good at it—murder—is he? Ewan is not dead, and neither is your father. So there is hope for Dewar.”
“And Dewar is a canny, crafty auld soul who will see Malcolm coming for miles,” Ewan swore.
“So we leave Malcolm to wreak his havoc on the rest of the estate and its people, until you can remember enough to say one way or another?” She had to say it—though the words were like hot ash on her tongue, it had to be said. “What if you never remember? What if your mind doesn’t recover because the wound and the hurt are too deep?”
Another heavy silence descended.
Ewan ran his hand through his hair, and then abruptly stood. And reached for her hand.
“I want to talk to Greer. Alone.”
Greer did not look to her mother for permission—she was done with accepted modes of ladylike behavior when so much was at stake. She took the hand Ewan offered, and led him to the only place she was assured of being left alone for as long as necessary–her private sitting room adjacent to her bed chamber.
She locked the door behind them and tried to be patient as he silently prowled around the room looking and thinking, clearly trying to either remember or make up his mind about something.
He came to stand before one of the windows facing west over the gardens and lawns. “All this is yours, then? The estate and house will not be entailed away from you?”
“Nay.” She could not quite place his tone. “There is no entail away from the female line. I am my father’s sole heir.”
“So you don’t have to marry.”
“Nay,” she said slowly, still not following his line of reasoning. “Not to secure my future. And not”—in case he needed more about the betrothal explained to him—“if I don’t want to.”
“Even to me?”
“But, I—” She made herself stop, and put aside her own misgivings to listen to his. “Do you mean if I had said, at any point, that I didn’t want to wed you, would my father, or your grandfather, have insisted?”
“Aye.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair in that familiar gesture of frustration. “I should have asked such questions before, but I didn’t know what I didn’t know, if that makes any sense.”
“Aye.” She sat so she could discuss the topic calmly, without betraying her clammy palm or weak knees. “I have read the betrothal agreement—several times. My father insisted I do so, first when I signed the formal agreement as a young lass, and most recently when I came of age. The betrothal was predicated—depended upon—our consent and agreement. Which I gave.”
“Because?”
Greer felt her chest tighten, and her skin grow chill and taut with dread—this was the heart of the matter, the compact between the two of them. “Because I felt I knew you.”
“From before—before you found me in the road? We had known each other for a long time?”
She set aside her own hurt enough to see how much this gaping hole in Ewan’s memory hurt him, as well. “Not exactly—we’d known of each other. We had never met in person, you and I. You’d gone away, to school in France, and traveling, and then university. And then I went away to travel and be educated. That’s why I didn’t know who you were, that day we found you in the road, though I think even your own grandfather might have been hard put to recognize you, so bloodied and beaten were you. And Dewar, who was, I suspect, trying to protect you, did not say who you were. But when I met you up on the moor, there was something about you. About your—”
“Madness?”
“About your character,” she insisted. “About how kind and upstanding and gentle you were, even injured, that moved me to trust you. And I was honored that you trusted me even when Dewar told you not to. That you were, despite not knowing who you were, yourself.”
“But I am not myself.” He was just as insistent. “I am not the man I was. All those hours of study, all those years of learning are gone from my mind as if they never existed.” His voice was an agony of doubt. “I am diminished.”
Her despair vanished in the face of his. “But it may come back. Surely it will. Every day you remember more and more.”
“I remember some—I remember some of the things I’ve forgotten. I see glimpses of others.” He gripped his head as if he were trying to keep it from falling apart. “But talking to Alasdair—my God, what a mind—and Archie—so brilliant and incisive—has made me realize just how much I have lost. Just how far and how much I have to gain to be Crieff again.”
The pain and frustration in his voice tore at her heart.
“You are Crieff. There is no not being Crieff, no matter how much you know, or do not know. You aren’t worthy of Crieff because of how much you know. You are worthy of Crieff beca
use of how much you are willing to learn.”
He looked at her, his green eyes so clear and vivid and vulnerable. “And what if I can’t learn it?”
“Ewan, I assure you—” She tried again to rally him. “Listen to what I just said—”
“Listen to me. Please.” He took her face in his hands so they were eye to eye, heart to heart. “You don’t think Malcolm is worthy of Crieff, do you? You don’t think he has the character or the learning for all that responsibility.”
“No,” she admitted. “I don’t. He has neither character or learning. But you have character. So much character that I am ashamed by how little I have in comparison.” She took another deep, steadying breath to quench the stinging tears forming in her eyes. “But you have something else Malcolm doesn’t have and will never have—you have me. I have the learning. Everything you studied, I studied, too. My father and my governess made sure of it. I am Dalshee”—she laid her hand over her heart—“in the same way you are Crieff. I can help you. If you let me.”
She could not tell if he was relieved, or stunned, when he asked. “Would you marry me, knowing I may never recover myself?”
Everything within her stilled and came to livid attention all at the same time. It was the question she had hesitated to ask herself. It was the question she did not want to answer.
But if she quieted all cacophony of questions and ignored every shred of evidence and listened only to her instinct—to her heart—she would find the answer. “My heart has belonged to you since I was a lass, Ewan. And I fear it is far too late to change now. You are, and always will be, that man I loved, even if you don’t believe it.”
He came closer. So close she had to look up to see the clear green gaze that poured over her like water. “But that’s not an answer, Greer lass.”
“Yes, it is.” She knew it was true. “My heart belongs to you and no other. I love you and no other. I can marry no other.” She waited while her heart was beating so loud she could barely hear her own words. “But what of you?”
He touched his palm to the side of her face, slowly, carefully as if he were measuring both her and the moment before he could speak. “For me, lass, there has only ever been you, and no other.” He cradled her face in his hands. “But would you love me, if I were not Duke of Crieff. Could you keep with me, if I decide that I am not worthy of Crieff?”
It was an impossible choice. And a surprisingly easy one. “I lost you once before, Ewan. I could not bear to lose you again. I don’t want to live my life without you.”
Lord Ewan Cameron
Castle Crieff
Perthshire
Scotland
8 July, 1791
Dearest E,
No post has reached us this four-week, which I put down to our rapid progress across the continent. Italy is a revelation, and the beauty of the northern lakes simply stupendous. But lest you think that I will forsake our own dear loch for the more polished gems of the lagos, fear not. Though they may shine crystal bright in the sun, I shall always prefer our loch as a diamond in the rough.
And while we are speaking of diamonds or other, lesser gems in the rough, I send you the enclosed present. It is, I know, not perhaps so fine as your portrait by the esteemed Madame Vigée-Lebrun, but it is a fair likeness by a female painter much in favor here in Italy, Angelica Kauffman. I hope it shall afford you some pleasure, or at least the same pleasure and comfort I take from your miniature, which I carry with me always. I hope that Papa, or some person, did warn you that I am a ginger, but I fear that it is too late if you find red hair anathema. I can always try to bring the fashion for white powder back. I do hope this missive will find you safe and well. I miss you, somehow, in a way I cannot explain, but hope time will rectify, when we become one.
I remain your devoted, G
La Signorina de Shee, Greer Douglas
Villa Charlotta
Lago di Como
Italia
24 August, 1791
Dearest Greer
I received with abiding pleasure your gift of your miniature. At last, I have your bewitching smile to look at when I read your words and imagine your cheerful voice speaking to me. And I will tell you for your relief that I am very partial to gingers and find red-haired Scotswomen more bonnie than any other on the Earth as a result. So pray, do not invest in hair powder. We will scrub along in perfect harmony without it.
I will treasure your gift and keep it with me always until I have the real person in front of me at Crieff. I miss you, too.
I remain your devoted but patient admirer, E
Chapter 27
Ewan kissed her. He kissed her with all the worry and fear and sheer terror of wanting someone he wasn’t sure he could keep. And all the joy and relief that she loved him despite himself.
He kissed her because it was the only thing he knew he could do without thinking. Without wondering or worrying, because this he remembered—this need, this desire. He had felt this need and desire for her, his lass, and it had been utterly, cataclysmically brilliant.
And he wanted to do it again. Now.
He wanted to spare no thought for the impropriety of the situation, or the others left downstairs, and lose himself for those few, fleeting, heady moments when his body triumphed over his battered brain. He needed that oblivion. He needed it now.
But she was taking her time, kissing him sweetly. As if she had no idea what she meant to him. What she did to him.
He would leave her in no doubt. “I want you, lass. Fiercely.” He dove into her kiss like a man parched for water, his life a desert without her.
She pulled back, and stared at him, as if she couldn’t tell if he’d gone mad. And then she took his hand and led him into her bed chamber, turned the lock, and leaned back against the door. “Then you shall have me. And I shall have you.”
He was on her, against her, kissing her, pressing his body into her, wrapping himself around her. It felt tight to have her in his arms. It felt good.
Better than good.
And better than best was having her lips upon his. Her sweet ardor pressing upon him. Her tongue questing and playing with his. Making his heart and his blood sing the same lively tune.
She looped her arms around his neck and held fast. Kissing him back as if she thought it better than best. Her hands speared into his short hair, tugging and pulling her way around his scarred skull, and down his neck to his jaw. She slid her palms along his jawline, exploring the feel of his freshly shaven chin.
He wanted to turn into her palm to rub himself against her like a dumb animal. Better yet, he wanted to rub against her, flesh to flesh, heart to open heart, like a sentient being instead of a dumb animal. To be like a man, and so not to overpower her like a dumb brute.
“Take me to bed.”
Her words were all the encouragement he needed to wrap his arms around her and pull her tight to his chest and hold her as if he would never have to let go. She was safe and in his arms, and at that moment, nothing could harm them.
He picked her up, and she came readily, wrapping her legs about his waist, her lips never leaving his. He pulled her flush against his chest with his hands around the firm curve of her rump. She was a wee, but well-made lass, with long legs that could wrap around him like a present. Strong well-muscled legs and thighs made stronger from all that walking and riding up and down the glens.
No remote drawing room duchess, his lass, with her lips pressed ardently to his. And there it was the flash of an image in his mind—a drawing room, all tartan-covered chairs, antlers on the wall and turkey carpets lining the floors, dark and beautiful. Crieff.
But he didn’t want to think about Crieff now. Not when there was a bonnie lass, holding on to him as if he were shelter in a storm.
And there was a storm inside him.
He set her down next to her high bed and went at the buttons of the velvet tartan waistcoat Archie had loaned him so he might look the part of a Scots gentleman. “Gie it laldy,
lass. You’re falling behind.”
A magnificent pink blush painted her cheeks as she watched him with what he took for admiration, before she went at her own buttons of her own redingote gown, peeling it off until her stays and chemise were revealed. “You’ve already fallen behind.”
He shucked off the velvet breeks in record time. “Your turn, lass.”
The swath of pink spread up her neck and down across her collarbone.
“Mayhap we should kiss again,” he suggested. “You didn’t look so worried when we were kissing.”
“No. I wasn’t.” She gave a little silly, endearing smile. “I mean, aye. Please. Kiss me.”
He took her face in his hands, cradling the sweet line of her jaw, and teased her lips open while she let her skirts and petticoats fall to the floor in a pool of fabric at their feet. “And my shoes,” she whispered against his lips. She leaned into him to toe off her heeled slippers. “What about yours?”
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her onto his lap, so she was sitting sideways, and he could still get after his borrowed buckled shoes. “But I can still kiss you.”
“Aye,” she agreed with that same breathless wonder that made him so bloody glad to be alive, glad to be here today to be kissed by her.
And when their shoes had dropped to the floor, and she had peeled her stockings off as well, her arms went around his shoulders. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lean back and carry her down to the bed atop him. The most natural thing in the world to lay her lovely, curved body along the length of him and let her legs tangle and entwine with his.
She looped her arms about his neck and pressed herself to him, her lips hungry for his. And he was happy to oblige her.
Her lips were as soft and sweet as her opinions were tart, and he liked that. Liked the tart, unpredictable nature of her. Liked that while they had been formed for each other, they had formed themselves so very differently in many ways. And not so differently in others—judging from the pleasurable ache in his own chest, at the near contact of her skin.
MAD, BAD & DANGEROUS TO MARRY (The Highland Brides Book 4) Page 28